


be good.

by argylemikewheeler



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good but just not perfect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No Sex, Past Stonathan, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 14:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19443655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argylemikewheeler/pseuds/argylemikewheeler
Summary: At 9, Steve met Jonathan. At 16, he was in love. By 17, he couldn’t remember the last time they’d spoken. Steve chooses not to confront his past (and present) feelings for his best friend in order to keep his new image as Hawkins' resident charming jock. Until of course, Will Byers goes missing and Steve sees Jonathan everywhere– in the hall, in the parking lot, in his dreams.Steve can only resist confessing for so long.





	be good.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a caffeine induced fervor in about twelve total hours. It's not the typical boys, but I had so much fun writing this and exploring the layer of New Context with Canon Scenes! Special shout out to AJ who literally pushed me to the finish line and helped me sort out the denouement. Love that, love them, love you-- thank you and enjoy! xo

Everyone seemed to think that it wasn’t until their junior year of high school that Steve Harrington finally noticed Jonathan Byers. If anyone had bothered to pay attention though, they would have noticed that junior year was just the time it was publicly encouraged for Steve to notice him. And for all the wrong reasons.

Truthfully, Steve never stopped noticing Jonathan. Ever since their first day of Key Club, back when they were nine, Steve had always taken strange interest in the boy. Jonathan hadn’t been very much of a talker back then either, but he would talk to Steve-- or at least just listen to him talk. After just two months of meeting every day at Keys, Jonathan finally spoke more than his usual five words: _hi. good. that’s cool. bye_ . Jonathan told Steve about everything: his mom, his baby brother, his dad-- oh his fucking _dad_. Jonathan bared it all.

He had a vulnerable soul-- and coincidentally, a very quiet one too.

The next three years of friendship-- and noticing-- were disguised by attending separate schools. Jonathan went to Hawkins Middle while Steve went the next town over to some pretentious private school. The main parental bragging point was that he had a uniform and learned to speak French. Well, Steve would’ve if he actually paid any attention. In fact, just by reading over Steve’s notes after school, Jonathan picked up more French than Steve ever did. It was somewhat of a planned stupidity though; hearing Jonathan say words Steve didn’t know meant he could make up whatever meaning he wanted. As Steve approached high school age, those possibilities began to narrow down to a _particular_ theme.

Steve confessed it, awkwardly, over a mid-day snack in Jonathan’s kitchen. No one was home. His dad had started going missing-- rather than purposefully absent. Steve tried to hang out at Jonathan’s house more frequently to try and give positive memories and energy to a space wrecked with rejection, abuse, and revoked love. Steve knew what _some_ of that was like. He intended to do his best to make his best friend’s life better.

And for some reason, that included coming out on a Wednesday afternoon in the summer before high school.

“You ever think about girls, Jon?” Steve asked, popping a peanut in his mouth.

“Hm, I don’t know-- and _stop_ calling me that. I hate it.” Jonathan pushed himself up onto the counter. He gently kicked Steve in the arm before breaking into a smile.

“Oh come on, _do you_?” Steve grabbed Jonathan’s knees and leaned into him, teasing him right under his nose.

“I’m not sure!” Jonathan admitted, lifting his hands up to shove Steve back. His face was red, flushed all the way up to his hairline. “Do _you_ , Steve?”

Steve paused, despite having this be his plan all along. “Actually, _Jonathan_ … no. I don’t.”

Jonathan laughed, a snort of awkwardness, before blinking at Steve slowly. “You’re kidding.”

“No. No, I really don’t.” Steve leaned back and braced his arms against the counter by the kitchen sink. “I think... I think I’m gay. Maybe.”

“Oh.”

“ _Probably_.”

“Okay.” Jonathan nodded. He crossed his ankles, stopping his swinging feet-- the only movement in the room.

“Do you think _you_ might be?” Steve asked.

“I dunno.” Jonathan shrugged, looking at his hands. “I really don’t think about that kind of stuff right now. I’m… I’m kind of busy with other stuff.”

Right. How could Steve demand an answer from Jonathan when his house was threatening to crash down around him-- and maybe take his younger brother with it. Jonathan had to stay standing if only to provide a small cover from the hurtling rubble. Jonathan was good that way. He was always so good.

“That’s fine. I was just asking.” Steve put another peanut in his mouth if only to silence himself for a few chewing moments. “In case, you know, you _were_ and you… I don’t know…”

“‘And I’ _what_? Go on.”

“We’re starting high school and that’s, I don’t know, that’s pretty big stuff. If you wanted to, maybe… I’m not saying you have to or anything, but if you wanted to, like…” Steve spoke around his chewing, making his own rambling worse.

“Steve. Out with it!”

“If you wanted to _maybe_ try kissing some time.” Steve looked at his feet. He’d never tried running at full speed. Maybe now was the time.

Jonathan parted his lips and clicked his tongue in pointed consideration. The wait was agonizing. “S-Sure. But, maybe not right now. My mom should be home soon.”

“No, yeah absolutely. Definitely not right now. I-I want you to think about it and stuff.” Steve nodded eagerly, just happy to have not completely ended their friendship. Jonathan was the best part of his life, the only boy that made all the weight in Steve’s heart feel light. Breaking their bond was _not_ an option for Steve.

The rest of the afternoon was spent over-calculating the intentions of their proximity. Since they’d somehow decided, silently, that naive intimacy was in their future, they had to make sure such a decision wouldn’t read on their faces. Or in their fingertips.

It became the game. They were _very_ good at it.

As expected-- by literally no one-- Jonathan Byers was Steve Harrington’s first kiss. It was early November of their freshman year. They were both in Steve’s room studying for a US history exam. Jonathan knew every answer and was trying to convince Steve he could know it too if he _focused_ , while Steve had resigned to only trying to memorize the curves of Jonathan’s face-- his lips.

Jonathan caught him staring, twice, while he was trying to explain the basics of the Missouri Compromise. Steve couldn’t stop watching how the word left Jonathan’s lips: _compromise, comPrUHmize, compromise_ . He pursed his lips the _tiniest_ bit when he pronounced it, like his lips were so soft they couldn’t press together tightly or wrinkle. It was hypnotic and Steve was in the mood to be hypnotized.

They didn’t bring up their previous conversation from the summer. They didn’t even ask the other if they were unsure. Both boys tossed their notes aside in favor of yanking the other to them. Steve fell back against his bed and Jonathan hovered awkwardly over him, keeping things experimental but innocent.

It was a weird first kiss, they later agreed, sitting back up. Steve hadn’t known where to put his lips exactly and Jonathan wasn’t sure when he was supposed to breathe. They both expected it to hurt or _something_ . Maybe a window would blow in or thunder would crack just as they-- two _boys_ \-- started kissing. But nothing happened.

They decided the silence was a sign, and they kissed again. They made a routine of it, frankly. Whenever they were alone, somehow, they’d end up trying to hold the other and plant just the _perfect_ kiss on them. Steve lost freshman year: 43-50.

Going into sophomore year, no one was the wiser to their changed friendship. Their school interests kept their social circles apart-- well, Jonathan and Steve’s social circle. He was still quiet in high school. Steve chose charm to hide his secret, while Jonathan chose selective silence.

He also chose photography. He told Steve that words were so much easier when there weren’t any. A photo could articulate everything Jonathan could ever want to say-- and everything he’d never thought of. Most times, when he was trying to practice and hone his skills, he’d take pictures of Steve: sitting on the couch, lying on his bed, reading in the library, standing by his car with his fresh new license, smirking at the lens with that known mischievous glint in his eye. Steve was proud, not to mention flattered, to be Jonathan’s model for his entire first year of high school. He became a model, if only for his Jonathan.

Let it be known, “Pretty Boy Harrington” first came from the lips of Jonathan Byers.

Steve never considered any of that time--the previous seven years-- to be a honeymoon phase. He didn’t think there was anything to end, anything to spoil.

Steve was proven wrong, undeniably, on the night of March 9th, inside the Byers house. Sophomore year was racing by them, spring break was on the horizon, and they only had a few more tests and projects before they were in the clear for summer. Jonathan had been telling Steve about this girl in his one class-- she was a freshman but she was _so_ smart. He couldn’t remember her name though: Darcy, maybe? Or was it Tracey? Nancy? It didn’t matter.

As the class and project talk drew to a close, Steve drew himself closer to Jonathan. At the time, Steve didn’t notice the rigidity of Jonathan’s posture as he slipped his hands around his waist, splaying over his back. Jonathan’s hands rested on Steve’s shoulders, but didn’t grip into them like they used to. It was all experimental; there was no right way, Steve decided. When two people trusted each other, mistakes were just new methods.

Steve placed his hand on Jonathan’s leg and was met with a timid squeak, Jonathan then pulling away. Steve looked at his hand and found it much higher on Jonathan’s thigh than he’d ever intended it to be. He recoiled and felt his face go red.

“I’m sorry, I thought that was your knee. Sorry.”

“No-- It’s okay.” It wasn’t. Jonathan chewed his bottom lip and dropped his hands from Steve’s back.

“Jonathan, what’s wrong? Honest, I didn’t mean to do that. I know we aren’t ready to try anything like that… I-I’m really sorry.”

“It’s not that.” Jonathan inhaled slowly; the way adults did when they were about to break terrible news to children. Steve didn’t have time to brace himself as a child though-- completely fragile and vulnerable. He sat like an unarmored adult, asking for a beating. “Steve, can I talk to you?”

“Of course, Jonathan. Of course you can.” Steve didn’t touch him again, although he naturally wanted to. He wanted to take Jonathan’s hand and rub his thumb over the back of it. He wanted to kiss his knuckles and encourage the words Jonathan so often left bubbling just under the surface.

“Steve,” Jonathan sighed. “I don’t think I’m gay.”

There were many things Steve had been expecting, but none of them included hearing _that_.

“W-What? But… But we’re… we’re like practically _dating_.” Steve laughed, righting himself on the bed. “That doesn’t… what are you talking about?”

“Please don’t be mad, Steve.”

“I’m not mad! I’m just… confused? I don’t understand.” Steve shook his head, trying to recalibrate his universe. It was warping and he was hoping it’d right itself as he stared helplessly at Jonathan.

“Look, when we started I had a lot of shit going on. But now Dad’s gone and I can think clearly and… I don’t. I don’t think I’m gay, Steve. We’ve been so similar for so long, I guess I just thought I _had_ to be if you were, but I’m not. I’m really not.” Jonathan said it with such nonchalance. He was able to disown all of his sinful actions with a shrug. All because he didn’t mean it.

He left Steve to take the brunt of guilt suddenly waving over him. He’d kissed a _straight boy_ . This whole time, Steve had been kissing and touching and sweet talking and _falling in love_ with a straight boy. Steve didn’t know when the discomfort started, he only knew when it had been spoken-- when the honeymoon ended. How long had Steve been thinking about memories of them together and fantasizing over moments Jonathan probably scrubbed his brain to forget? How long had Steve been _forcing_ Jonathan to sin with him?

Love wasn’t one-sided; then it became coercion.

Steve felt sick, suddenly standing and grabbing his backpack. They’d planned on having a sleepover. “I have to go.”

“No, Steve. Please don’t. I’m sorry. I-I’m sorry!” Jonathan cried, reaching out to grab his arm.

“Don’t touch me!” Steve cried, his eyes burning. Why did crying have to hurt? Wasn’t his breaking heart enough. “Don’t _fucking_ touch me.”

Steve never wanted to be touched by another man ever again-- unless it was to try and forcibly right some of his wrongs. Men’s hands were rough, and their actions were meant to be as such. Steve’s father had been right; his hands were too soft. He had to stop thinking they were meant for the simple, careful caresses of a face he had spent so much time memorizing-- and couldn’t force himself to forget.

One broken nose and spring break later, Steve realized what had been wrong the entire time: him. The happiness had been a disillusion. He understood. He was going to change it. He was going to be better.

Enter Nancy Wheeler. Jonathan had been right; she was smart-- brilliant was a better word, actually-- and determined and bullshit intolerant. She wore baby pink and pale lip gloss and spat sharp defenses for unpopular harsh realities missing from their history books. When she spoke to Steve, in timid passing as class ended, every instinct Steve had to be gentle returned.

The urge was different than it had been with Jonathan. With him, it wasn’t planned or rehearsed or even understood. It came from somewhere deep in Steve and found its way twirling around his fingers and over Jonathan’s skin. With Nancy, Steve suddenly knew what to say and what to do; he’d seen it all in movies before. It was easy to fake something he didn’t have to think about.

By May of their sophomore year, Nancy was invited in and Jonathan was left where he was-- out. Jonathan kept on being talented and studious and _good_ , and Steve kept on being straight; it was a consuming act. Steve never let his heart interact with the _one_ person he’d thought would keep it forever. Without the temptation, without the echoing of past sin, Steve could, maybe, learn to be good too.

Eventually, being so quiet finally paid off and absolutely no path of Steve Harrington’s ever crossed Jonathan Byers’.

Then, of course, Will went missing and everything fell to shit. Again.

* * *

The morning of Tuesday, November 8th, Steve came to school with his usual goal: continue to convince Carol and Tommy, his usual audience, of his undeniable place as a straight, lovable, student athlete-- Steve learned those three only existed together. Since the summer, he had to convince Nancy too, but Steve acted different with her. With Nancy, he was genuinely trying for his own good too.

Back on Monday night, sitting in her room and helping her study for her Kaminsky exam, he was trying to be the boyfriend that she’d want to have: kind, charming, mischievous, committed, _attracted to her_. He prayed his brain would suddenly decide to throw the switch and be in love with Nancy Wheeler, the kindest girl he’d ever let close to him. Becky, Laurie, and Amy weren’t soft with him the way Nancy was-- the way he wanted to treat someone else.

Steve was trying-- god was he trying-- but he was admittedly relieved when Nancy insisted studying _meant_ studying. Deep in his hard wiring, buried just above where he’d put his shame, Steve had learned that being asked to study with someone meant a chance to fool around. He couldn’t _imagine_ where he’d learned that. If it had been a history exam rather than chemistry, maybe something in Steve’s mind would have shifted into place after all.

“I’m telling you, you know, you got this.” Steve said in earnest, stopping Nancy by the lockers. She was _brilliant_ . “Don’t worry. Now. On to more important matters.” Steve was _not_ so brilliant. He was only allowing his brain to run at half capacity. It meant he only thought about the things directly in front of him. And _since_ he never saw a certain boy, he never had to spare a thought to him; he no longer counted as an important matter. “My dad has left town on a conference-- and my mom’s gone with him, because, you know, she doesn’t trust him--”

“Good call.” Tommy said under his breath.

Steve looked at Tommy, still trying to maintain the smile he’d placed for Nancy. He didn’t want to accidentally agree to the habits of Harrington men. Steve’s dad was impulsive and unfaithful-- often spitting in the face of his own vows to God. Steve was just as impulsive, only in his own mind though, but still spit directly into the face of God with every fleeting thought. As he got older, the impulses got darker-- more sinful-- and Steve could feel his own innocence curdle in his stomach and twist into a low-sitting, tight knot. Steve was going to turn out just like his father. If he was so lucky.

“So are you in?” Steve pressed on, looking back at Nancy. He wasn’t sure if he’d even said his complete thought.

“In for what?” She asked. Steve hadn’t, apparently.

“No parents? Big house?” Carol said, hissing at Nancy.

“A party?” She guessed, face contorting with the look only straight-A students would make. Steve had seen it before. It comforted him. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Oh my god, _it’s Tuesday_.” Tommy mocked, scoffing. Steve gently hit his chest and returned his attention back to Nancy. It was so much easier to talk to her. She made everything easier.

“Come on. It’ll be low key. It’ll just be us.” Steve would understand if she wanted to stay home. Hell, he almost wanted her to, but he also really wanted to like her. He wanted her to know that he was _trying_ to like her. “What do you say? Are you in or are you out?”

Nancy considered the offer, face twisting again with a look of interest, tinged with minor disagreement. Steve was willing to wait all day. He valued her ability to go between _should_ and _should not_. Maybe she could teach Steve something one day.

“Oh, God. Look.” Carol all but groaned. Her eyes looked down the hall past Nancy.

Again, Steve forced himself to look away from her, thinking it’d be a poor freshman Carol was ready to fillet with her words. But no, oh no. It was Jonathan Byers, standing by the bulletin board, looking haggard and exhausted.

“Oh, God, that’s depressing.” Steve felt compelled to speak first. To show that he wasn’t hiding anything. He noticed Jonathan Byers, but he hadn’t _noticed_ him. He was able to still think coherently while looking at him. Definitely.

Steve was not thinking about every afternoon he’d spent with him and Will, sitting on the floor of the Byers’ living room and sharing snacks to babysit. The time Jonathan started crying because Lonnie was being _too hard_ on Will, but there was nothing he could do or say to stop him without getting into the line of fire-- and the guilt of _not_ wanting the abuse was too consuming. The feeling of unconditional love Steve felt coursing through that house the _moment_ Lonnie left. There was no need for Steve to feel compelled to help in providing good memories; that family was strong all on its own.

Except for when the roof caved in right when Jonathan was least expecting it. He hadn’t been standing over Will. The rubble had swallowed him up instead. Steve couldn’t imagine the pain Jonathan must’ve been feeling. The agony radiated off of him, even from the distance. Steve didn’t want to look, if only to stop himself from thinking about it. Maybe.

“Should we say something?” Nancy asked. Steve wanted to agree, but knew silence was the better option.

“I don’t think he speaks.” Carol quipped. _He does_ , Steve thought, _to the right people. He always has something to say_.

“How much you want to bet he killed him?” Tommy said, taking the liberty of saying the most _horrible_ thing first.

“Shut up.” Steve tried to soften his retort last minute with a laugh; his punch turning into a nudge to Tommy’s chest. There were very few other ways to disagree with Tommy without a complete fight-- over a boy Steve wasn’t supposed to know, no less-- but Steve had to interject somehow. That was his best friend. Jonathan was _good_. He didn’t hurt anyone. Not even Steve when he most deserved it.

Beyond all else, at that moment, Nancy was _also_ good. She was morally conscious and _able_ to cross the hall to Jonathan. Steve couldn’t hear her, but he was sure she was curing some deep ache Jonathan had inside-- at the very least because she reached out to him rather than stare from a distance. As no insult to Nancy though, Steve knew he could do better, could say something _sweeter_ to calm the anxiety inside of Jonathan. But no. That’s not how men spoke to each other.

Steve faced the other direction until the bell rang. It gave him reprieve from trying to crack the armor he’d finally placed around his heart. He left without a second glance back at Jonathan, but hoped that maybe his friend had spared one for him.

* * *

For everything else in life, Steve had a somewhat rehearsed or coherent script from watching how other men spoke to women. He’d change the tone, alter the intentions a bit, and echo the world with perfect conviction. But then, standing in his room with Nancy Wheeler, startled by her sudden half-nudity, Steve had nothing. He had _nothing_.

Steve had allowed his reputation to precede him, despite it all being a lie. Steve had randomly dated in the past seven months, but he hadn’t slept with anyone. He never thought he’d have to. But Nancy was shirtless and looking at Steve with the relaxed look of pure _trust_.

Steve tried to convince himself, again, that there were no mistakes between two people that trusted each other; he could _handle this_ . But something inside of him felt tight-- and in the wrong way. He really was going to _do this_ . There was no way to fake _this_ . Steve would have to _be_ the boyfriend Nancy needed him to be. He’d have to be a real, proper man and follow through and not limp-out halfway like he always did.

There was a moment when Steve thought only of Jonathan. How this was _exactly_ what he’d done to him before, except now Steve was getting a taste of his own medicine. Steve deserved the discomfort he’d forced on his friend. How could he possibly begin to understand the _severity_ of his sin, if he didn’t feel the pain he’d inflicted on others?

Shamefully though, the thought of Jonathan, even just a fleeting second of him, was _enough_.

It was fast and quick, and Steve barely knew what he was doing, but he was able to keep it up-- keep it _going,_ rather-- the entire time. Steve endured the entire experience, hating every sound they made together-- not because it was new or extremely intimate, but because it _wasn’t right_. Every time Nancy said his name, it wasn’t said the right way. It wasn’t the call of an old friend, finally falling into a pit of intimacy they’d never get out of in one piece. It wasn’t soft enough, the way certain hands had been running over his shoulders. It wasn’t Jonathan.

* * *

Wednesday morning, Steve couldn’t stop thinking about Jonathan. Hell, he’d finally allowed himself to notice him, even in private. It felt like Steve had been intimate with him last night-- _as well_ . See, no, it wasn’t as easy as Steve picturing Jonathan in Nancy’s place. No, that wasn’t the point. That wasn’t helping Steve be who he _had_ to be.

Steve was still very much with Nancy, but all his fantasies and stupid dreams of how the first experience would go-- was supposed to go-- were floating around in his head as he tried to focus on what he was doing, on what he was _saying_ : Nancy. Nancy. Nancy. Nancy. Instead of feeling like Steve was with _only_ Jonathan or only Nancy, Steve felt like he was doing all of it in _front_ of Jonathan. Like he was proving something.

It was an apology in his mind. There was no way in _hell_ Jonathan heard it, but it was an apology: _See! Look! I get it now! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you do all that. I didn’t try to make you evil. You’re good and now-- now_ **_I’m_ ** _trying to be good too. I can be good too_.

Steve didn’t remember when becoming good meant being straight. It became interchangeable after a while, he supposed.

At lunch, the two figures haunting him through the first four periods of the day became an entire lunch room as Carol and Tommy crudely reenacted what they thought the night before was like. Steve tried to laugh-- tried not to care as Nancy recoiled with discomfort and disgust-- and calmed Nancy’s nerves about Barb. He wished he’d gotten up with her to see if she was around. He wanted to be good for something.

What was even _better_ about Wednesday, joining the constant feeling that Steve had to check on Jonathan as he did Nancy, was that Steve started seeing Jonathan _everywhere_ . He’d passed him twice in the hallway going to and from lunch-- only once with Nancy at his side for deflection. Jonathan was the last person leaving geometry, and held the door for Steve as he reached for the handle. Jonathan was even the only person in the parking lot when Steve ran out to grab his gym gear between periods. He was everywhere. Steve couldn’t be alone without Jonathan, and _definitely_ couldn’t be alone with him.

Steve was leaving gym when Nicole, Tommy, and Carol came rushing up to him.

“We need to talk to you about Byers.” Nicole snapped.

“I-- Okay? What about him?” Steve tried to blink away the floating images he had of the boy in his mind. “W-What happened?” _What did you catch me thinking_?

“He’s a fucking creep is what happened.” Nicole said shortly, popping her gum. “I saw his fucking photographs.”

“P-Photographs?” Steve suddenly started thinking about every time he’d been on the pointed side of the click of Jonathan’s camera. Not every photo could be explained away with being a candid. Steve looked in love in every single one of those photos, he knew it.

“Last night, at your party?” Carol seethed. “He has photos of us outside in the pool-- apparently some of you and Nancy.”

“Byers has pictures of me… and Nancy?” That wasn’t right. Jonathan wasn’t _supposed_ to be around when they were having sex. That was a weird fantasy and fucked up conscious hallucination. That wasn’t supposed to be real. Steve wasn’t supposed to be able to _feel_ when Jonathan was around.

He did now.

“He walks the same way to his car every day. We have to get him after last period.” Tommy said, landing his fist into his palm. “Goddamn freak.”

Steve began feeling sweat form on his upper lip as his hands began to tremble. “You guys go wait and I’m going to put my gym stuff away. I’ll be right there. Don’t start without me.”

“Just be back before second bell.”

“Got it.” 

Steve started running at full speed. He finally knew what it felt like.

The hallways were only partially crowded, only stopping Steve unnecessarily for half of his trip to Jonathan’s locker. Steve rounded C hallway and spotted Jonathan, checking for any missed books. He was standing quietly, muttering only to his assignment book-- and Steve came pounding up, panting for air.

“J-Jonathan! Hey, Byers.” Steve had no right speaking to him so directly. They weren't friends. But Steve was panicked, and trust meant _no_ mistakes.

“Steve? W-What’s wrong?” Jonathan pulled his messenger bag over his head to rest on his shoulder. He didn’t even ask for an apology-- or an introduction.

“Your photos.” Steve said, his chest still heaving. “Nicole saw them.”

“Nicole? Who is that?”

“That doesn’t matter-- _what_ were you doing, Byers?” Steve demanded, prodding Jonathan’s chest. It was an excuse to touch him. To know he was still real, he hadn’t drifted off.

“Byers?” Jonathan echoed, lifting his eyebrows. “Well, that’s new.”

“Answer the question! What were you doing? W-Were you taking blackmail photos? Huh? What were you doing at my house?” Steve was frantic, trying not to let every thought in his head run out with a worried look. Although, it seemed as if it was already happening; people were reading him too easily.

Jonathan was far calmer, looking at Steve liked he’d spoken a foreign language-- finally doing so correctly. The hall was empty as the first bell rang for school to be over; he had the time to-- and Steve had the pleasure of having Jonathan-- stare at Steve, blinking at him slowly.

“B-Blackmail? No. _No_. That’s not it. It’s not about you, Steve.” Jonathan scoffed, shaking his head. “My brother--”

“No!” Steve snapped, poking the locker rather than Jonathan again. “How can you take pictures of me and my girlfriend and say it’s _not_ about me.”

Jonathan shifted his weight on his feet as he inhaled slowly again. It was _that_ tone of voice. Steve didn’t even brace himself.

“I just-- I was looking for Will, looking for my _brother,_ and heard a scream and ran over… then I saw you... And Nancy. And I couldn't believe it. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t… like, hallucinating or something.” Jonathan didn’t look Steve in the eye the entire time. The discomfort was back. Steve couldn’t do _anything_ right.

“W-Why can’t you believe it? That’s my girlfriend, Byers. That’s my _girlfriend_.” Steve began raising his voice, trying to shout at himself.

“Y-You aren’t straight, Steve.” Jonathan said slowly, stopping before repeating himself. It seemed to be the only sentence he had. “You… You _aren’t_ straight, Steve. You’re _not_ ! You just aren’t a-and now you’re _lying_ to Nancy! You’re fucking lying to her-- and yourself!”

“No, I’m not! I’m not lying to her. I’m not.” Steve cried, clenching his jaw. It wasn’t lying if he was trying to make it true.

“Steve,” Jonathan resigned with a sigh. He reached out and tried to touch Steve’s arm, but he rejected the invitation.

“No. No, I’m _not_ lying. I’m not fucked up anymore. I’m not, Jonathan-- _Byers_ . I’m not like that. I’m not some… some _pervert_ anymore. I’ve fixed it. I fixed it. I’m with Nancy now and I fixed it. I’m not… I’m not bad anymore.” Steve was begging. If Jonathan believed him, then it could be real. Steve could stop pretending because there was no one he was truly hiding from. After he believed it, Steve was just _living_ when he was with Nancy. As scary as that was.

“Steve, come on. We both know how you feel--”

“No. Not anymore. I don’t feel like that.” Steve swallowed his urge to cry and recollected himself. _I don’t feel at all_. “We’re outside waiting for you. I have to say this. Again. Don’t make us find you, Byers.”

“H-Hey!” Jonathan called after him as Steve was back at the intersection of C and B hall. “Since when did you start calling me _Byers_? I thought Jon was bad enough.”

“Since I’m afraid to call you by your first name.” Steve said. The empty hall knocked the words right out of him. “That’s sacred.”

“My name?” Jonathan repeated, closing his locker door over. “You _just_ called me by my first name though, Steve. It’s just a _habit_.”

“No. It’s instinct. Something I’m learning is a lot harder to change. So you just avoid it.” He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and turned on his heels. He made it outside, just past the basketball players as the second bell rang.

“Alright, school should be empty. Let’s wait him out.” Carol said as Steve approached. His hands were still in his pockets, hoping to hide his trembling fists; Steve couldn’t decide what emotion he wanted to feel at the moment.

He felt suffocated and trapped, but equally exposed. All his time spent avoiding Jonathan and punishing himself, and one sentence brought him back into his life. All the hours Steve had spent lying in bed, trying to keep his dreams blank were going to become living nightmares if Jonathan cracked and showed anyone a single photo or told a single story about their formative friendship. Steve was a reformed villain now; he didn’t want all his progress to be lost because he was caught in the middle of the biggest lie he could tell-- by the _one man_ who knew how much energy he’d put into it.

Steve thought he was going to throw up. He really had been caught this time. There wasn’t supposed to be _any_ flash photography during performances; it messed with the actors. Made them self-conscious of their craft, of the world still spinning around them as they spiraled out of control for its entertainment. 

Jonathan had gotten a picture of Steve as proof, but not in Steve’s favor. If Jonathan wanted to explain himself, he’d have to come clean to the _boy_ in the photo, not the girl. Jonathan took that picture to try and correct any misgivings he had about seeing Steve with a girl. That one photo-- was there _only_ one?-- made it clear that it wasn’t expected from Steve. Jonathan could sink him with just one word, just one story. One regurgitation of a childhood of forced discomfort and disgust and Steve would get to be the villain again.

Being the good boyfriend was only an act anyway. The curtain would have to fall eventually.

Steve sat on the trunk of Jonathan’s car and waited. He was nervous Jonathan wouldn’t show, that he’d expose Steve in the most cowardly way possible-- avoiding him. He deserved to though. Jonathan didn’t owe Steve a damn thing. He had been nothing but good to Steve, nothing but kind and understanding and willing and _complacent_ to all of Steve’s tumultuous teenage antics. More than anyone, Jonathan was the one who deserved the apology. But at that moment, Steve had to tough up-- like a _man_ , as his father told him-- and refuse his own gentle instincts. He couldn’t be gentle with Jonathan, not then.

After ten minutes, Steve spotted Jonathan leaving the school. He didn’t notice Steve, or at least didn’t face him, and walked in a determined but casual way toward them. He wasn’t trying to offset the inevitable, even slowing down when he entered the group’s peripherals. God, why did Jonathan have to be _so_ good to Steve.

“Hey, man.” Steve avoided any name at all. Jonathan knew he’d only be talking to him. There was never anyone else.

“What’s going on?” Jonathan came to a complete stop, grabbing his messenger bag strap loosely.

“Nicole here was, uh, telling us about your work.” Steve said. He kept his voice even, trying to sound coy.

“We’ve heard _great_ things.”

“Yeah, sounds cool.”

“And we’d just love to take a look. You know, as… connoisseurs of art.” Terrible as it was, Steve was actually eager to see some of Jonathan’s work. It had been less than a year-- but even longer since he’d been the focus of one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jonathan said with a huff, starting to take off. He didn’t even crack.

Steve kept his hands clasped in front of him, not permitting himself to touch Jonathan with others present. Instead Tommy stepped up and whipped Jonathan’s bag right off his shoulder. It had been across his body when they were in the hall. Steve hadn’t even noticed he’d moved it.

“Hey! Please, give me my bag. No, just--” The bag was passed to Steve’s hands and Jonathan stopped. No resistance was directed toward Steve. But that wasn’t good enough for anyone _but_ Steve. He had to keep going. There was _evidence_ and he had a right to know how it looked.

“Man, he is totally trembling. He must really have something to hide.” Steve said. He handled the bag with care, placing it on the back of the car as he unzipped it. The printed photos rested right on top. Steve didn’t have to go digging. “Ah, here we go.”

When they were teenagers, young and awkward, Steve used to feel such overwhelming embarrassment about looking at photos of himself; he hated seeing himself from Jonathan’s eyes. It never felt right. He didn’t deserve to be an object of admiration-- even if he learned later it was just light balancing practice. All his discomfort had been wrongly place though, because in that moment, looking at a photo of himself completely unnatural and pretending, and knowing it was through Jonathan’s eyes, was like coming out to him all over again. Steve was laid out for all three of his accomplices to see, standing and hovering and _thinking_ about how to have a party.

Holding the photographs, and knowing they’d come from Jonathan’s careful hands, made Steve miss his best friend all over again. It felt like that first night alone again; Steve sitting in his room and deciding if calling and apologizing to Jonathan was worth it-- if he’d want to hear from him. Steve could so clearly see the walls he’d built up around himself as he paged through the shots of them by the pool. Echoes of his and Jonathan’s past summers, kissing between monsoon splashes, rose around the four of them, hidden in the heated steam and photograph grain.

“Oh, man.” was all Steve could manage, really.

“Dude.” Tommy scoffed, ripping one from Steve’s hands.

“Yeah, this isn’t creepy at all.” Carol said, her voice twisting around Jonathan.

“I was looking for my brother.” Jonathan started. Steve had heard the end of that sentence; he knew where it could go.

“No. No, this is called stalking.” Steve refused to let his past mistakes be hunted. Especially without his permission. Jonathan knew Steve then, and got to keep all his happy vulnerable moments. They weren’t his to take now too.

“What’s going on?” No, not Nancy. The three of them needed to stop interacting.

“Here’s the starring lady.” Tommy passed the shame, somehow, directly onto Nancy.

“What?” She asked, still approaching.

In the new change of tone, Steve allowed himself to look at Jonathan, try and keep their previous conversation both alive and dead at the same time. He wanted Jonathan to remember what he’d said, remembered that he was _scared_ , but keep it buried. If the conversation turned against Jonathan, if Steve had to play the good boyfriend, there was nothing Steve could do to stop the performance. It wasn’t going to be pretty, but he’d get a standing ovation.

“This creep was spying on us last night. He was probably gonna save this one for later.”

Steve looked away from Jonathan only long enough to see the last photo in Carol’s stack. In the dark shadows of the underlit back porch, Nancy’s glowing bare skin shown through his bedroom window. Only Nancy; Steve’s figure was still a shadow behind the curtain. It wasn’t evidence for anyone except Jonathan. No one would know the context except him; it _couldn’t_ be blackmail.

But, unfortunately, it was an invasion of privacy. Jonathan just needed to see, to _know_ , that Steve had a real girl in his room. Only him. It was a self-inserted seek for truth-- or at least clarification for deep secrets left in the dark. A good boyfriend didn’t let a stranger take near-naked photos of his girlfriend without a little arguing. And no straight man let an old ex-lover try and watch his own touch disappear under the skin of someone new.

To think Jonathan had watched his performance, even through a window, made Steve feel like he was on fire. He rolled the photos up in his hands and began walking toward Jonathan. He wasn’t sure why. A haunting of intimacy pushed him; Jonathan had all but _been_ there. And only Jonathan knew who Steve really was. He held all the power, and it was terrifying.

“See, you can tell that he knows it was wrong, but… Man, that’s the thing about perverts. It’s hardwired into ‘em. You know, they just can’t help themselves.” As if on queue, Steve finally reached out and fixed Jonathan’s lopsided collar. They both knew he wasn’t talking about Jonathan. But they were the only ones.

To free them both from the unwanted tether of Steve’s first _real_ intimate experience, Steve ripped the photos, once down the middle and then again and again. He tossed them at Jonathan, keeping his eye on him for a moment too long.

“So, we’ll just have to take away his toy.” Steve said.

_He wanted to see the act. He wanted to see it all in action._

“No, please, not the camera.” Jonathan begged, as if he had the right. And he did. If anyone could grovel to Steve-- and still maintain control-- it was Jonathan.

“Hey, hey, hey! Tommy. It’s okay.” Steve held him off from suddenly touching Jonathan. Not when he was begging, no, that could push him too far. Jonathan might not have had the pictures anymore, but it was still his word against anyone else’s. And Steve couldn’t take that chance. Not as the good boyfriend. “Here you go, man.”

Steve addressed Jonathan again in distance, almost out of respect. He held Jonathan’s camera out to him-- one he’d definitely had pointed at him before when he was aware of it-- balancing it on the tips of his fingers. As Jonathan reached for it, nearly about to brush Steve’s fingers with his own, Steve let the camera tumble to the ground.

Every memory the camera had ever innocently seen and held so dearly between them shattered with a crisp, clear, _crack_. It was too easy for Steve. Too cruel.

Jonathan’s brother was missing and Steve went and took another boy from his life. He really was a monster.

Steve urged the group to leave before the prickling in his nose developed to full blown tears. His performance couldn’t be over, not when he’d just committed to the role fully. His discomfort wasn’t over; he had to repent for all the new pain he’d just caused Jonathan.

* * *

Thursday was no better.

Repenting was getting harder the more people kept colliding with his messy past. Thinking about Jonathan-- and fighting the loud voice that reminded him of who he used to be-- put his mind far from the realities of being a good person, being _any_ person someone would want to be around. When Nancy approached him, worried about her own best friend, Steve ran through every prepared line but only arrived at self-preservation. But that wasn’t right. He was supposed to be saving Nancy, not himself. He was a lost cause.

Worse, they’d found Will. He was half-submerged in the old quarry, wearing his favorite red vest. Steve wanted to call Jonathan, or at least Mrs. Byers, and offer his condolences. Will was part of Steve’s life too. The best part of it, in fact. Every great memory he had buried away, laced with sin, was prefaced with a joyful blip of time Steve spent joking around with Will. Jonathan deserved so much better.

By the weekend, Steve felt exhausted just trying to keep his composure in check and in line with what was expected of him. He leaned into his parents’ scolding over his party; it was for the underage drinking, and that was the least of Steve’s counts against him. In fact, when Steve mentioned he didn’t know about the mess by the pool because he was upstairs with Nancy, he felt his father’s tone change. It was more of a lecture than a preparation for punishment.

He was still passing, but he still wasn’t living up to the potential of his part. Nancy deserved an apology, a real one. One meant by good boyfriends who loved their girlfriends, and had the _ability_ to love their girlfriends.

As Steve approached the Wheeler house, he saw their garage door open. Nancy was standing inside, horribly swinging a bat and about one more heave from throwing her back out. Or knocking all of Steve’s teeth down his throat.

“What are you doing here?” Nancy asked, practically panting from shock.

“What are you doing?” She was covered in more than enough layers for the weather, and none of it was black. She’d just come from the funeral, hours ago. Steve knew because he made sure he was sitting silently in his room at the same time as the service and piecing together a prayer as best he could for Will. He wasn’t allowed to go.

“Nothing.” She shrugged. The answer sounded less than interested in being the truth. Steve understood, but he knew how the rest of the conversation had to go; they hadn’t really been together since Tuesday night, and he knew that to keep everything settled and his conversion on track, he’d have to repair his past mistakes.

“I hope that’s not meant for me.” Steve was typically used to clenched fists and broken beer bottles. Bats were new. Maybe easier to dodge.

“What? No. Oh, no, I was just… thinking about joining softball.”

“Oh.” Steve had never considered Nancy an athlete. She didn’t have to fulfill that role to fit in anywhere, but Steve knew she’d be great. She was strategic and friendly. Any team would love her, just as anyone should. “Well, listen. I’m really sorry. I mean, even _before_ you threatened me with the baseball bat.” Typically, most of Steve’s most sincere apologies came when his father had him dangling over the stair banister, hands clambering for the railing in case his shirt and jacket didn’t hold.

“Okay.” Nancy had every right to be mad. Her voice had been neglected and ignored; Steve only really heard what she’d said to him in the alley outside the school hours _after_ , when he was trying to force the day’s events down and away. 

“I panicked and… I mean, I was a total dick.”

“Yeah, you were.” Nancy said. Steve sighed; he deserved that. “Did you get in trouble with your parents?”

“Totally, but you know, who cares? Screw ‘em.” Steve was able to say as such because there were no bruises to call his bluff. Although, at this part in the act with Nancy, most of it felt natural and real. The concern wasn’t fabricated. “Any news about Barbara? Parents heard from her? Or…”

“No.”

Despite being constantly told he wasn't allowed to, Steve really liked Barbara. Every time she spoke in their homeroom, she was funny and snarky. There was nothing wrong with Barbara to initiate any of the slander pointed at her. Steve wished he’d gotten to know her, the real her that was hidden underneath pointless noise. He knew what that felt like, but Steve had at least asked for the dissociation. Barbara was the sudden victim of being a decided outcast.

What had gotten Steve to the point where his own friends were chosen for him? Sure, he’d cast Jonathan aside on his own, but Barbara? She hadn’t done anything to him. Steve didn’t like the monster that was coming to light the more he had to juggle the halves of himself. He liked when it was just one. Just the good boyfriend; he knew how that part went.

“Why don’t we, uh, why don’t we catch a movie tonight, you know? Just kinda pretend everything’s normal for a few hours.” Steve suggested. “ _All the Right Moves_ is still playing. You know, with your lover boy from _Risky Business_.”

“Yeah, I know.” Nancy laughed quietly. Steve had learned Nancy thought Tom Cruise was _very_ cute very early on. It was funny, now that Steve thought about it-- and with Carol’s later comment-- because Steve did too.

“You know, Carol thinks I actually kinda look like him. What do you think? Huh?” Steve turned his head, modeling his silhouette. It wasn’t the same if a camera wasn’t clicking between his words. Nancy stared at him, her face distracted and consumed with troubling thought. Steve took her bat gently, singing to her and reminiscing the scene they’d seen together that summer:

The August heat had snaked its way into the theater, but they’d refused to stop holding hands. Together they watched Tom Cruise dance and shake to Bob Seger-- but only Steve was thinking about a time when he and Jonathan would do the same thing listening to _Sheer Heart Attack_.

“I just, I… I don’t think I can.” Nancy said softly. “I’ve been really busy with this whole funeral thing and… with my brother. It’s been really hard on him.” Steve didn’t need to hear much else; Mike lost a best friend. That was terrible grief all its own.

“Yeah, sure. Sure. Yeah.” Steve nodded incoherently. Poor Mike. Even the torture of knowing Jonathan was still out there was still somewhat of a reprieve for Steve, but Mike would have nothing for the rest of his life. Poor fucking kid. “I should go.”

“Sorry. I’ll call you later. Is that okay?” She grinned, her gentle nature returning-- although never really having left despite wielding a bat. She placed a hand on his cheek, the tips of her fingers holding him for a moment as she placed a kiss on his lips.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He nodded.

That was what girlfriends and boyfriends did: they called each other. It was one thing to just _have_ a girlfriend and throw the scent off of any discovered secrets, but it didn’t help Steve or reverse his sins and repent for the pain he inflicted on Jonathan if he didn’t follow through. Nancy just wasn’t someone he was being kind to in name only, she _was_ his girlfriend. When he kissed her, he really tried for it to mean something.

He touched her arm as he left, completely able and willing to do so. Touch was healthy, Steve had to remind himself. He could do so without harming anyone.

Steve continued to sing and mutter memories from their first date, his hands getting sweaty all over again.

* * *

That night, Nancy didn’t call. Steve had been with Tommy and Carol when he realized what time it was, and that his phone hadn’t rung once. Concern got the best of Steve and he corralled them into his car, driving off to Dearborn and Maple. On the drive there, he’d snapped at Carol for insinuating he didn’t have a heart-- or worse, that he was _in love_. It was one thing for Steve to pretend for their benefit and it was another to be made fun of for it.

To avoid bringing any accidental anger into his conversation with Nancy, he told Carol and Tommy to stay in the car as he pulled up to the Wheeler residence. He crossed the lawn quickly, the dying grass stiff under his feet as he bounced in a half-jog. He avoided all windows directly and scaled the roof without obstacle. Once crouching on the shingles, Steve inched toward Nancy’s window. The curtains were parted, allowing Steve to become the voyeur. He didn’t like it, he had to admit.

He expected to see what Jonathan saw in the photograph; a girl minding her own business and, almost uncomfortably, unaware of his presence-- until he knocked, of course. Steve, instead, genuinely _saw_ Jonathan sitting with Nancy on her bed. Steve felt his universe warp again; it had never righted itself.

First, Jonathan didn’t believe Steve could pull off the lie of being straight, then he decided to sabotage it? It _was_ blackmail. It had been this _whole time_ and Steve played into it. Steve had walked right into the outing of the century. Maybe the execution too.

Steve deserved it by all means, but he didn’t expect Jonathan to do anything without telling him. He at least warned him every time he broke his heart.

“What a fucking _slut_.” Carol scoffed once Steve muttered the news, resting his head on the steering wheel.

“Hey-- that’s not. I just said she’s with Jonathan.” Steve had to share his own demise if it meant starting damage control. “They weren’t doing anything…”

“Still. She blew you off. What a _slut_.” Carol repeated. “Wait. What did you ask her to see with you tonight?”

“ _All the Right Moves_?” Steve said, turning his head toward her. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Tommy, you still have that spray paint?” She laughed, popping her gum.

“‘Course I do.”

“What are you planning?” Steve sighed. He didn’t think he could handle two schemes at once; that was like a play within a play. That was some serious Shakespeare bullshit Steve was just too tired to handle.

“Don’t ask questions. Just meet us at Hawk tomorrow.” Carol clapped Steve on the shoulder, shaking him. “I’ve got the perfect plan.”

* * *

As it turned out, even the worst plans sounded pretty perfect when processed on forty-five minutes of sleep. Steve hadn’t bothered to sleep a wink after driving home. All he could think about was Jonathan. Not even in a vengeful, angry way. He just caught himself thinking about him: his crooked smile; his wonky, half-leaning walk; his refusal to wear colors beyond an earth tone; his sweet, kind lips; his strong hands that were always gentle with Steve; the way his voice sounded when it was broad daylight and they were lying in his living room, hands resting on the same seat cushion but never touching; the way he sounded in the pitch dark, leaning in and telling Steve it was okay to kiss him, to touch him if he wanted.

One night, in the spring of their freshman year, Steve was so sure he was in love. Jonathan let Steve sleep on his bed with him, encouraging him to even go so far as to place a hand on him as they got comfortable. It bothered Steve only then that Jonathan had never reached over to him, but in the moment, Steve felt comforted at the thought of being invited to reach over and touch another boy. It was just Jonathan’s back; Steve’s hand rested over his shoulders, pulling them only a hair closer as Steve readjusted on their pillow. Jonathan whispered, almost silently into the shadows casting over Steve’s face, that he could kiss him:

 _“If you want to kiss me… I think you should_.”

It was the most romance Steve had ever thought he’d get. It was a gentle invitation, encouraging such a sickly sweet weakness in Steve that ruined him. That one kiss made him the spineless man he was then. He could recall the flooding of his chest, the exhale of every bit of tension. It was like making contact with the purest form of warmth on Earth. It was like finding home.

Steve couldn’t give that up if he tried. And for the first time in months, he let himself dream about it. He enabled himself to fall back in love, if only in a dream state, and relive an old memory.

If only it stayed a memory.

As Steve drifted to sleep, his mind began to take liberties with the details: Jonathan’s age was different suddenly and they were older, but just as they were then. They weren’t lying in Jonathan’s bed, but rather Steve’s unmade one. The lights were on and Steve could see Jonathan’s hair, drying unevenly from being completely soaked. Steve was still in front of him, but their slow, unfamiliar movements suggested Steve could also be over him.

Suddenly, a voice: “Steve? Steve, oh my god! What are you doing?”

Steve panicked as he realized they weren’t alone. Nancy was standing in the corner, camera raised to them. She wasn’t looking through the lens but her finger kept pressing the button, sporadic flashes blinding Steve momentarily. He was only able to see Jonathan, panting and flustered, in spotted gaps. Steve looked around as fast as he could while he had his moment of vision, and couldn’t quite recognize his own position. He was suddenly over Jonathan, elbows bracketing his shoulders. He couldn’t get up. He couldn’t stop.

Steve spasmed awake to find his hand stuck down the front of his pants. He gagged as he pulled it out, relieved nothing was _happening_ to him at the moment. He brought his knees to his chest and sat up, his chest heaving and mouth refusing to close-- in case he actually started to vomit.

Never before had Steve thought of Jonathan like _that_. No, never like that. Actually, Steve didn’t think he still had the ability to think about any man that way. He thought he’d been at least halfway cured. Then again, intermissions to the act had to happen sometime and Steve’s mind apparently chose when he was sleeping to do so.

After such a nightmare, Steve didn’t bother going back to sleep, and Carol’s plan passed through when Steve wasn’t paying attention. Hell, he was barely paying attention even after Nancy slapped him. She even asked a fair question too, Steve had to admit:

“What is wrong with you?”

Steve couldn’t answer her even if he wanted. The good boyfriend act was up and running. He wasn’t sleeping anymore. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? I was worried about you. I can’t believe that I was actually worried about you.” Steve was beyond repair. He didn’t think he was capable of such an innocent emotion as concern.

“What are you talking about?” Nancy said, her voice getting higher pitched.

“I wouldn’t lie if I were you. You don’t want to be known as the lying slut now, do you?” Carol antagonized. Steve still had no idea what she was doing. It didn’t matter anyhow. Jonathan was coming right toward them.

Steve’s first instinct was to notice how striking he was, still. His second was to gag again. His jaw tightened and he waited for Nancy to piece together their suspicions; she was smart enough.

“You came by last night.” She was distraught and suggested Steve’s actions for what they were: an invasion. “Look, I don’t know what you _think_ you saw, but it wasn’t like that.”

“What? You just let him into your room to study?” Steve spoke while looking directly at Jonathan. They both knew how it worked. Steve had played dumb to get a kiss more than enough times to know.

“Or for another pervy photo session?” Tommy jeered. Jonathan reacted, finally, and turned to glare at him. As if sharing the same memory with Steve, he fumed at the implication: the photos he took of those he studied with were _never_ pervy. And they were not shameful. At the time.

“We were just--”

“You were just what? Finish that sentence.” He wanted to hear Nancy say it; say that she was with someone else. She was with someone who was actually complete. “Finish the sentence.”

She refused and, again, Steve was denied closure. What was it like to kiss over note cards and pose for memorable photos and have it only be an issue because it was infidelity, not blasphemy? Steve would never know. And selfishly, Steve thought, Nancy would never know what Steve felt-- all while she was finally relieving Steve of his duties.

“Go to hell, Nancy.” Steve wished. Regret hit him immediately; he just wanted someone else to join him when he died.

“Come on, Nancy, let’s just leave.” Jonathan sounded genuinely disgusted. He was really going to act like Steve hadn’t been his first kiss, first study partner, first model. Steve had to make up false stories and girls to keep his head above water and Jonathan was just going to let Steve disappear.

“You know what, Byers?” Steve said, spinning around sharply. His tongue felt sharp and his hands were trembling again, the faint heat of his own body haunting them. He’d defaced his last good memory of Jonathan-- while _he_ was just going to act like he had none of Steve. “I’m actually kind of impressed. I always took you for a queer, but I guess you’re just a little screw-up like your father.”

Steve shoved Jonathan and _god_ if felt good to touch him. To place a full hand against his arm. Steve was so disgusted with himself he had to keep talking or risk gagging again. He could feel the warmth of Jonathan’s skin again, even from his closing distance. He could taste his lips-- hear his whisper, low and calming, all over again.

“Oh yeah. Yeah, that house is full of screw-ups. You know, I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised. A bunch of screw-ups in your family.” Steve knew he was going to detonate the last shred of their friendship, and he wanted to go out in the worst way he knew how: no longer acting like he _wasn’t_ Jonathan’s friend, but being exactly that as he said every terrible thing he’d ever heard Tommy say.

Jonathan stopped moving as Steve shoved him, but it was Nancy who spoke: “Jonathan, leave it.”

“I mean, your mom? I’m not even surprised what happened to your brother. I mean, I am.” Steve continued to push Jonathan, ignoring Nancy’s cries. The touch still felt white hot, and Steve didn’t hate himself _enough_. He kept reaching for Jonathan. He kept reaching. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but the Byers, their family, it’s a disgrace to the entire--”

Finally, Jonathan reached back, clocking Steve cleanly on the jaw. Steve was thrown onto a nearby pipe railing, hanging over it in an all too familiar way. No, no, Jonathan Byers was not going to punish him like his father. They were equals; they’d shared the same bed and the same sins. If Jonathan was good, why couldn’t Steve be too?

He charged at Jonathan, grabbing him around the waist and throwing him against a car parked in the alley. Instinctively, Steve’s knee went up on the hood and caged Jonathan in. Jonathan’s hands were already on his back, quickly sliding to grab at his shoulders weakly. Alarmed by the continued contact, Steve reversed the encasement and tossed Jonathan back to the ground.

Jonathan laid there, arms up and legs not even resting on the ground yet, and Steve was only reminded of his dream. Standing over him, but still being so far away, Steve felt so fucking lonely. So _isolated_. From himself, from his so-called friends, his life, everything. He had just thrown someone he was supposed to be mad at to the ground, possibly ending the fight with a two-time shove, and all he wanted was to get closer again. It was stupid, but he could get away with it. So he did.

Steve jumped on Jonathan, laying on top of him and grabbing him by the lapels. Jonathan grabbed his shoulders again, but this time kept his grip and rolled them. Jonathan’s legs pressed around either side of Steve’s hips, holding him still but also holding him hostage. This wasn’t something he ever thought he wanted-- being _so close_ with Jonathan-- even if it was through the means of a fight. Steve was finding out, though, that it wasn’t just a sudden realization. It had been the same quiet ache in his bones from that first night alone. It’d been the same ever since. Steve never really got over Jonathan. Not really.

Tommy shouted an encouragement, a reminder to what he was doing, and got Steve to surge alive again. His knee lifted from under Jonathan and shoved him off. They rolled apart, Steve getting to his feet and checking himself for any giveaways. As his head was ducked, looking down at his jeans, Jonathan came back up swinging.

It was the first punch delivered by a non-disguised party. It was real rage, having waited months for this exact moment. Steve had asked God how many ways he could repent, and finally, he had been given an answer.

“Hey! Get out of here!” Steve cried as Tommy stepped between them. “Get out of here.” If he was meant to brawl Jonathan, truly a force of good in a place of darkness, Steve wanted to do it without any casualties. He righted himself, ducked once from one of Jonathan’s swings and reached for him again. This time, he wasn’t gentle. He touched Jonathan’s face the way his father taught him a man should _only_ touch another man.

Jonathan responded with a startling reply: a hit that told Steve he’d learned the same thing too. Jonathan’s was taught in reference to accidental misunderstandings of his gentle nature-- not accurate observations. Regardless, Jonathan still knew how to touch Steve-- the way real men did.

It felt like part of Steve’s face was being numbed and felt at sharp, disorienting speeds. His neck snapped back and he could feel himself aching to just fall to the ground. It wasn’t the worst pain in his life, Steve knew that, but it was all so consuming and exhausting.

It was true pain, one that he deserved, and Steve intended to take every bit of it.

This was repentance. This was an evening of scores after possible _years_ of making Jonathan uncomfortable. Even in the dark, that one spring, Jonathan might’ve known that he wasn’t like Steve, but Steve took that comfort from him anyway, like monster he was. It was right, to have his last touches from Jonathan be ones aimed to kill him.

Steve didn’t resist. He barely wanted to get up when the cops came, but Tommy yanked him to his feet and started him running. By the time he was sitting in the passenger seat, allowing Tommy to drive his car recklessly to the Fair Mart, he realized he truly wasn’t done. A punishment felt more like acceptance if it was requested and not given.

Steve was only half cured--if that-- and being forced to start giving his final bows.

* * *

The Coke was a few degrees short of frozen and felt _awful_ on his temple. The metal didn’t have any cushion and didn’t cradle his face the way an ice bag would. Instead, he was forced to put a bulging solid of condensed gas against his face-- while he thought about the boy he used to love. God, _used to_. What a lie.

Carol and Tommy were going back and forth, teasing and laughing, but Steve wasn’t inclined to listen, until Tommy touched his arm. It was misplaced among the images darting through his mind. Steve blinked and turned an ear to their conversation, trying to keep from being recast.

“Oh, God, I just got an image of him making _that_ face while he and Nancy are screwing.” Carol laughed, wincing.

No. That wasn’t the face Steve had imagined resting on his pillows. No, it looked nothing like that. Not in Steve’s dream and not in any reality where they’d even approached such a subject. Jonathan never looked so harsh or crudely built when he was with Steve. Even in his dream, through spots in Steve’s vision and frantic scrambling, Jonathan never looked so furious.

“Carol, for once in your life, shut your damn mouth!” Steve snapped, wanting the visual to dissolve as it had that morning. He blinked, but it remained.

“What?” Carol scoffed

“Hey, what’s your problem, man?” Tommy spat.

“You’re both assholes. That’s my problem.” Steve shouted, looking at them both. This was the part when, after no one had ruined _anything_ for him-- at least not really-- Steve would do it himself. Jonathan had kept quiet and kept letting him live his lie; Nancy was unhappy it seemed, but didn’t cause too big of a tear in the mirage; but now Steve was going to. If the lie wasn’t working, then maybe Steve had a better shot at just being completely silent. Maybe even dead.

“Are you serious right now, man?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.” Steve figured he had enough blunt force trauma that one more punch could kill him. Why not try it out? “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Done what?” Tommy countered.

“You know what.” It occurred to Steve maybe that the dizziness he was feeling was actually exhaustion. He still hadn’t slept. He still didn’t know the full extent of what Carol had suggested they do that morning. 

“You mean call her out for what she really is?” Tommy leaned in close to Steve, sharing personal space and blame. “Oh, that’s funny, because I don’t remember you asking me to stop.”

“I should’ve put that spray paint right down your throat.” Steve should’ve noticed, should have been more attentive to the cruelty they were showing Nancy. She didn’t deserve any of that shame-- especially the billboard. That was just horrific.

“What the hell, Steve?” Carol chimed in.

“You know, neither of you ever cared about her. You never even liked her,” Steve said, although he was guilty of that too. Well, just not in the way that was expected of him. He liked Nancy, he really did. Just, not enough. “Because she’s not miserable like you two.” _Like the three of us_ . “She actually _cares_ about other people.”

“The slut with a heart of gold.” Carol shouted back, hands lifted in her pockets.

“I told you to watch your mouth!” Steve threatened.

“Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, man, but you don’t talk to her that way.” Tommy defended Carol immediately. How could he not? That was his girlfriend. He loved her. He was flaunting everything Steve could never do or have, no matter how much he pushed the sins away.

“Get out of my face.” It wasn’t begging if Steve said it through gritted teeth.

“Or what?” Tommy seethed, grabbing Steve and slamming him against his car. This attack felt different. Tommy’s hands were rough and clumsy. None of him cared about the contact, he only cared about the damage. That wasn’t right. Fighting Jonathan felt different; Steve had _liked_ being touched, even if it was with the goal of destruction. Steve still trusted Jonathan, but he would never trust Tommy. “You gonna fight me now, too? Huh? You gonna fight me now, too? Because you couldn’t take Jonathan Byers… so I wouldn’t recommend that.”

There was no argument to be had; Steve couldn’t take Jonathan Byers because he didn’t want to. He’d never want to. In a fight against Tommy, Steve would consider throwing a punch. At least two. He could be brutal to another man. His father had taught him how.

But his father also taught him, inadvertently, that there were those that deserved brutality, and those that didn’t. Those that were innocent were meant to be rewarded. If there was to be punishment, it was for Steve and him only. Nancy, admittedly, was part of his punishment, but didn’t deserve any in return.

Breaking the tension and contact between him and Tommy, Steve climbed back into his car and sped off. He shouldn’t have been driving, but Steve did anyway, going ten over the speed limit and pulling up to Hawk Theater again. He just wanted to help-- at least in the things, and people, that _could_ be helped.

* * *

After two hours, Steve sat on his bed, elbow and shoulder aching. Why did spray paint have to be so stubborn? Steve was closing in on a full day without sleep. His head lolled every time he blinked. His eyes felt deeply-set and almost cold underneath as he blinked. The swelling on his face was still prominent, but seemed to be leveling out.

Steve had really fucked himself this time. There was no script that helped to explain away public humiliation of a current girlfriend and guilt-ridden argument with a first love. Steve didn’t have enough faux charm to fix any of this. He’d allowed Nancy to get caught up in the mess of his performance; he’d showed his gentle nature in the middle of a brawl. Then, of course, there was Steve pushing Jonathan away while he was already at an arm’s distance. Fighting over a relationship that wasn’t even alive anymore was like turning something shattered into dust.

Hunching over, his elbows resting on his knees, Steve pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. His eyes burned and his chest couldn’t seem to take an even breath. Every time he tried to inhale, he could only seem to exhale in a silent scream, his lips quivering and teeth clenching. A wound had opened-- had been _bleeding_ \-- and Steve hadn’t noticed. Not a physical one, of course; he had enough of those. No, Steve had been ignoring the ache of his shattered heart, the shards cutting everything on the way down to his churning stomach.

Sure, every inch of Steve ached from being beaten, but he still couldn’t stop reliving every second of it. The touch. The warmth. The certainty. Steve missed Jonathan so much, he could barely seem to stand it. It felt like their first and last kiss all over again: his heart was bursting and crumbling, his entire body was burning head to toe, and his mind was incoherent with a single name. _Jonathan_ . _Jonathan, Jonathan. Jonathan_.

All disgusting feelings aside, Steve just missed his best friend. His heart had always mourned Jonathan’s distance, even when they were together. The pain wasn’t new but now, sitting and finally starting to weep in uncontrollable desperation, Steve began to feel a new ache: loneliness. 

There was no one, not one soul, that new Steve like Jonathan did. Even with their time apart, and vicious words, Steve wouldn’t trust anyone else with his life or his heart. All the happy memories Steve had with Jonathan were still safe, tucked into the crest of his heart-- before it was guarded up. Steve was the same person despite his change in costume and script. He was still Jonathan’s boy, whether he wanted him or not.

Steve loved Jonathan, and he didn’t care if he was never loved back; it was just a part of who he was. It didn’t have to be honored or even acknowledged. Steve just couldn’t act like it wasn’t his favorite part about himself anymore.

Being in love for Steve was the admission he had a place, somewhere to put all his weight and confusion. He didn’t need to be loved in return; he’d been doing it at home long enough. His heart was just so tired, he was afraid it would harden up before _anyone_ came along. Even if he was hopelessly in love with a man who would never love him back-- and Steve _let himself_ \-- at least Steve would know his heart still worked. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

Sophomore year, Steve was just looking for a reason to be angry. He found love in another man, but nowhere else. He had a way to block out the rest of his life-- and it was suddenly taken from him. Steve only made it worse, trying to push it down and deny what he was.

Steve was gay and his best friend wasn’t. He didn’t love him, but he was still a safe place.

Fuck. Was he supposed to call? Apologies-- or at least incoherent fragments of one-- weren’t easily made over the phone. Jonathan could easily hang up. Or not answer at all.

Steve flopped back on his bed, head bouncing on the springs before settling again. Once horizontal, it was like he’d dunked his head underwater. Exhaustion crept up behind him and began tugging his eyelids down. Steve tried to resist it, tried to swallow the thick sleep that was already getting his breathing to slow and regulate.

After the week he’d been having, Steve had no fight left and let himself nod off.

* * *

When Steve woke up, it was dark out. There wasn’t a time frame for groveling, but Steve still fumbled for his coat and keys and ran back out to his car. His parents still weren’t home, allowing Steve to be as openly and outwardly anxious and hysterical as he needed to be as he clambered down his stairs. The apology would be real and it’d be gentle, the way they were always meant to be.

Steve pulled up in front of the Byers’ house and saw the glow of lights inside; he’d caught Jonathan just in time. He was still awake, or at least sleeping on the couch again. Steve knocked hurriedly, afraid time was slipping away.

“Jonathan! Are you there, man? It’s… It’s Steve.” He felt like he needed to reintroduce himself. “Listen, I just want to talk!”

“Steve, listen to me.” A familiar set of un-gentle blue eyes greeted Steve at the door.

“Hey. Nancy, what--”

“You need to leave.” She said firmly.

“I’m not trying to start anything, okay?” Steve clarified, exhaling heavily. He didn’t want to restart anything. He just wanted closure-- to give a correct apology.

“I don’t care about that. You need to leave.”

“No no no. Listen, I messed up, okay! I messed… I messed up.” _I’m messed up_. “Okay? Really. Please. I just want to make things right. Okay? Please. Please...” Nancy’s hand fidgeted against the door. The look of blood seeping under gauze was so familiar it almost didn’t strike Steve. “Hey, what happened to your hand? Is that blood?”

“Nothing. It was an accident.” Nancy echoed a previous sentence of Steve’s. Of _Jonathan’s_.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” She insisted.

“Wait a sec. Did he do this to you?” It was impossible, but nothing seemed too far fetched by that point. Steve put his weight up against the door and shoved evenly, Nancy’s legs shifting on the floor.

“No.”

“Nancy, let me in!” Steve pushed again, this time Nancy stepping back entirely.

“No. No! Steve--”

Okay, so maybe Nancy was trying to say something after all: the Byers house-- the house Steve had let cradle so many of his childhood memories-- was ransacked and nearly crumbling around them. “What is… What the…”

“You need to get out of here. Listen to me, I’m not asking you. I’m telling you, get out of here!” Jonathan grabbed Steve’s shirt harshly, the touch careless and without any meaning. Only warning. His hand was wrapped and bleeding too.

“What is that smell? Is that… Is that gasoline!” There was something sour and heavy hanging in the air.

Steve asked in the hopes someone would laugh at the preposterous nature of his delusions. Something didn’t sit right with Steve showing up, near ready to confess and bury his love for his best friend, and there being the smell of gasoline in the air. The term was _flaming_ , but he had never been punished that much. What had they figured out?

“Steve, get out!” Suddenly, Nancy had pulled a gun and was pointing it at him.

“Wait, _what_! What is going on?”

“You have five seconds to get out of here.” She shouted, face tight with every unnameable emotion.

“Okay, is this a joke? Stop. Put the gun down.” Steve had been threatened with a gun before, honesty still sickly sweet on his own lips, but he’d never been so sure of it being loaded as he was then. His father only ever had the empty barrel to spin, the slow clicking warning Steve of his wrongdoings before any words ever did.

“I’m doing this for you.”

“Wait. Is this a… What is this?” Steve had never thought his ex-lover and fake girlfriend would kill him, but it was apparently what he deserved.

“Nancy…” Jonathan said slowly.

“Three… Two…” Nancy disregarded him.

“No, no no!” Steve begged, holding his arms out. He was reaching out for someone, anyone.

“Nancy! The lights! It’s here.” Jonathan said more firmly. Nancy let the gun drop and her body twist to the rest of the room. Suddenly, Steve became aware of the flickering Christmas lights hanging overhead-- and that Jonathan was suddenly wielding Nancy’s bat now armored with nails.

“Wait, what’s here?” Steve cried. There weren’t many other surprises he thought he was ready for. He was scared, both of the house and the two people in front of him. He had a confession ready, but suddenly it seemed minuscule. He’d never been afraid of something _else_ before.

“Where is it?” Nancy stood with Jonathan, beginning to spin and take in the entire room.

“Where is what?” Steve asked, narrowly avoiding being in the gun’s aim again. “Whoa! Easy with that!”

“Where is it?” Nancy spoke to only Jonathan.

“I don’t know. I don’t see it.” Jonathan finally answered. His tone wasn’t any Steve had memorized. It was shaken and worried, but equally determined to _swing_ at the first sign of movement. And Steve was afraid it would be him.

“Where is what? Hello? Will someone please explain to me what the hell is going--”

Steve had thought his questions were being ignored, which was understandable and predicted. But in actuality, as the Byers’ ceiling suddenly began to ripple, as if working in reverse gravity, Steve understood there _were_ no answers. There was a monster in the room other than himself and absolutely _no one_ knew what to do.

After witnessing something nothing short of horrifying charge at them, Steve ran. But, of course, Steve couldn’t leave Nancy or Jonathan with the creature he watched all but _manifest from thin air_. Fighting a mortal monster was one thing-- it had weaknesses, and aches, and breakable bones and heart-- but fighting one without a recognizable face wasn’t some allegory or frightening ironic joke. It was an abandoned creature of Earth capable of killing his two friends.

Steve came back and learned that _no_ , baseball bats weren’t much easier to dodge, but they were a hell of a lot harder to swing than a bare fist, especially after wiping off graffiti all day. He also learned that some monsters really were flaming, and others were just really flammable.

Steve learned he wasn’t the worst thing out there.

* * *

“I don’t think that’s the monster.” Jonathan said, breathing finally slowing down. They’d chased the glowing lights out to the front porch. Well, Nancy and Jonathan chased, Steve just followed. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Nancy nodded quickly, patting her sides and chest.

“Steve?” Jonathan turned, eyebrows raised. “I can’t tell with your-- Are you okay? Did it get you?”

“No… I’m okay.” Steve said. “But, can I ask a stupid question?”

“ _No_.”

“Yes.” Jonathan said, looking at Nancy pointedly. “You can ask about the monster.”

“Does it… have a name? Or something.” Steve held his arms out, the bat hanging between his thumb and forefinger.

“We didn’t nickname it. It’s supposed to be dead already.” Nancy had a new grittiness to her voice that Steve knew she hadn’t adopted while in his presence. She was growing with Jonathan all her own; they now had that in common too. “It took Barbara.”

“It what?”

“By your pool… It took her. That’s where she is-- the same place as Will.” Nancy turned on her heels and went back inside the house. Steve quickly followed, Jonathan trailing behind slowly. Even scared shitless, Steve still noted how they were sharing their old childhood spot again. Same calculated distance, same oblivious deniability.

“Wait, Will?” Steve placed his bat against the arm of the couch and sat himself down. “Will’s dead.”

“He’s not.” Jonathan said, certain of himself. “He’s in the lights.”

Steve was gay and more of an abomination than anyone in that room, but he had to say, he was feeling slightly better about his own recent derailing. He was in somewhat of a good company for it.

“He’s _where_?”

“T-The lights. Listen, I can’t explain it that well. Will’s just-- he’s alive, we were talking to him. We _know_ he’s okay. We just wanted to kill the bastard that took him.”

“Why is it a _bastard--_ the thing didn’t have a fucking _face_!”

“Would you like it better if we called it a slut? Would that help you?” Nancy spared no one. Her gun was empty but she was only getting warmed up.

“Listen, N-Nancy. I’m sorry.” Steve knew the words were empty to a fresh wound, but they were still sincere. “I didn’t know they were going to do that-- the marquee thing, I swear. One minute I was lying in bed trying to sleep and the next… I had driven myself to our meet up spot, barely conscious enough to drive. I didn’t remember. Really.”

“When does exhaustion excuse publicly shaming me for something _I didn’t do_?” Nancy demanded, slamming the gun down on the coffee table. She presented her weapon freely; she was defenseless, but not powerless.

“It doesn’t. It doesn’t.” Steve nodded, allowing her pain to have space in the room. He thought about telling her the graffiti had been removed, but it was likely no solace to the frayed hole growing in her heart. “I’ve just… I owe you an apology for so much, Nancy. You’ve been so worried about Barbara and… doing _this_ , I guess? But you were just trying to help and I… I wasn’t a good boyfriend. I wasn’t there for you.”

“Steve.” He’d expected Nancy to speak, sighing and pitying him for being so absolutely boneheaded-- before scolding him again. But instead, it was Jonathan who was speaking. “Steve, cut the bullshit. We almost died.”

“What?” Nancy turned to him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Cut the shit. Why did you come here?” Jonathan was direct but not accusatory. He probably could just hear Steve’s original coherent thoughts bouncing around in his mind. The Byers’ home held no secrets.

“T-To apologize.”

“Why?” His voice softened, Jonathan easing down to sit on the other end of the couch. “I beat _you_ up. I got _myself_ arrested.”

“I didn’t mean to make you… do that.” Steve cleared his throat and twisted his one hand in the other. His wrist ached from swinging his bat so harshly.

“Steve, what are you talking about?” Nancy cut in.

“Same to you, Nancy. I’m sorry.” Steve wanted to take her hand, just like she always did to him, but knew that he’d never be able to replicate the sweet sincerity in her eyes. He didn’t want their last moment together to be a lie. “Really, you don’t deserve this... I’m so sorry.”

Nancy hurriedly grabbed the gun off the table and stuffed it into the back of her waistband. She stared at Steve the entire time. “Steve, what are you doing? I’m worried.”

Steve knew the feeling. He had been scrambling and worried since the day he figured the joy he felt when he was with Jonathan was no longer-- _never was--_ in the realm of normal, ordinary, or acceptable. The fear came later, but Steve knew that first feeling, that first _recognition_ , that Steve had the capacity for _real_ love. It had been early sophomore year, the daylight hours before they’d share a bed.

Steve and Jonathan had been trying to bake-- trying was the key word. Steve kept getting distracted eating the dough, licking his fingers as he leaned over the counter and tried to read the recipe again. Jonathan had been standing beside him, back against the counter, and looking over Steve’s shoulder with furrowed eyebrows and eyes filled with endearment. After a moment of Steve muttering the directions, Jonathan told him to _stay there_ as he hurried off, returning with his camera. He called Steve’s name as he stood up, catching him licking some sugar off his fingertip. Although, nothing was ever sweeter than the growing smile that emerged behind the camera, drawing him in-- and tasting the sugar on Steve’s lip.

The photo was found two weeks later, developed in a stack containing the only photo of Jonathan Steve had ever taken. They were outside, loitering in the backwoods of Jonathan’s house just at the brink of autumn. Jonathan was cold and trying to wrap himself up in a sweater far too big for him. It was red, but Jonathan had developed the photo in black and white. It made him look lost, his eyes not trained on the camera as he tugged his sleeve down. He looked small. Looked beautiful.

Steve missed the permission to look at Jonathan like that. He loved to notice the ways Jonathan was the most imperfect marvel of perfection, but hadn’t been given the rightful chance in months. He just wanted the chance to look, to admire. To give his love.

But he already had somewhere to put it. And she was currently standing before him, afraid he was going to use her gun against himself.

“Nothing. I just-- I’m really sorry I was an idiot. It won’t happen again. I’ll be better.”

“Steve,” Jonathan said, trying to move closer. They stopped. House rules.

“I’ll be better.” Steve repeated, looking at him for only a second. “I’ll fix it.”

* * *

They hadn’t been wrong: Will was alive and being driven to Hawkins Memorial. Steve still didn’t know how he’d gotten into the lights, but all he knew was that he was the only one calm enough to drive the three of them to the hospital after Hopper called the house, shouting but relieved.

Upon arriving, Steve simply found his way into an empty seat in the waiting room. He sat beside Mr. Wheeler, just next to the door. Everyone was tense, waiting for the emergence of good news. Steve, though, only felt guilty. Some part of him had already arrived at the fact that Will was okay; they were all just waiting to _see_ him at that point. With the acceptance, Steve’s mind was able to wander, finding him still thinking about every word of the apology he’d intended to hand over to Jonathan, wrapped neatly around his heart.

A child almost _died_ \-- _they_ almost died-- and Steve couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d just wanted to fix a growing wrong before it was too late.

Finally, Steve was distracted-- or reminded more rather-- from his thoughts as Jonathan stepped into the waiting room. He gave a single nod and Mike shot out of his seat, shaking his friends.

“Guys. Guys, he’s up. Will’s up! Guys, Will’s _up_!” Mike had gotten his best friend back after all. He’d been spared. He’d been blessed.

Steve watched Jonathan lead the kids down the hall back to Will’s room. The kids were running, Mike leading the charge. His sneakers could be heard pounding against the tile floor, even as he left Steve’s line of sight. Jonathan trailed behind the three of them, no longer in a rush, no longer petrified his family had been cut down again.

Jonathan’s world had righted itself. Steve’s only objective was to fuck it all up. His thoughts were spinning, but his world was still spiraling. He shouldn’t share.

It was late. Steve had no business being there. While the parents were shuffling their belongings and readjusting in their seats, Steve stood to leave. He blindly started following any sign with an arrow, just trying to get out before he embarrassed himself with a single tear.

“Wait, Steve!” Jonathan, of all people, sounded happy to have found him. “Wait up.”

“I’m on my way home. Visiting hours are over I’m pretty sure.” Steve thumbed toward the door he had assumed was an exit.

“Okay, yeah. Sure.” Jonathan nodded. He walked toward Steve, his one shoulder facing out. “But, my house doesn’t have any.”

“What?”

“Visiting hours. My house. There aren’t any. You should come over.” He said evenly. “My mom’s staying with Will tonight and I need some help tidying up, if you wanted to help.”

“Y-Yeah. Sure. Of course.” Steve sputtered. He stood in the middle of the hall, shrinking in the sterilized white.

“Great. I’m going to give my keys to Hopper so my mom isn’t stranded later-- mind if you drive?” Jonathan spoke to Steve like they were fifteen again. Steve felt like crying, right there in the hospital.

“Not at all. I love when you ride shotgun.”

“I pick all the good music, that’s why.” Jonathan said, smiling slowly. “I’ll meet you at your car. Ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Jonathan echoed, nodding before going back from where he came. “Don’t make me find you, Harrington.”

“I won’t.” Steve tried to tease back, but his voice wavered in the return. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Byers.”

As he turned away as well, Steve was glad he had ten minutes; it was just long enough to clear the aching sob he had rising in his throat.

It erupted as he stood in the elevator, back resting against the railing and shoulder against the corner wall. It was short and painless, just a rush of relief that _no_ , _it wasn’t over yet_. Steve swallowed the rest of his unsettled feelings just as a nurse and doctor got on at the second floor. He ignored them both-- Rosie and Dr. Owens apparently, by their conversation-- and stepped off to find where he’d parked. He climbed onto the trunk and waited for Jonathan.

* * *

“What did I say that made you so angry, Steve?” Jonathan asked after a moment on the empty stretch of highway. They’d said almost nothing since meeting up and getting in the car. Jonathan waited until Steve couldn’t avoid it. “I mean, in all sincerity, did me telling you I wasn’t gay hurt you _that_ much?”

“It wasn’t like that.” Steve said back, gripping the steering wheel. “It wasn’t… It wasn’t just that you aren’t gay.”

“Then what is it?” Jonathan asked in present tense. He was leaving nothing behind.

“Nothing.”

“ _Steve_. Steve, talk to me. I love you, man--”

“See, the thing is: no, you don’t!” Steve snapped, his voice suddenly cracking. There was no escalation; he started at the top. “You don’t love me. You just played along to my sick, twisted fucking games until you couldn’t take it and--”

A hand grabbed Steve’s, squeezing it gently. “That wasn’t it at all. Steve-- Oh, my god, that wasn’t it at all.”

“Then what was it, huh? Please. Because you got to walk away, free from all that and I just get to live with it. Live like this.”

“You, Steven Harrington, will always be my first kiss. That is still the truth.” Jonathan hadn’t forgotten Steve at all. “I never said I didn’t like what we were doing when we were younger. _That_ is still the truth.” Jonathan sighed and shifted in his seat.

“You saying that to the only other man who knows that isn’t really making me feel better.” Steve muttered, moving his fingers and nudging Jonathan’s hand away. “If it’s just me, it’s still a secret. It’s still shame. It’s still fucking _dirty_.”

“Okay, okay. So it’s like this: we both come from equally but... _differently_ abusive houses, right? So--”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Steve said, staring at him. “It’s not-- I don’t like that word.”

“Steve, your dad’s a piece of shit.” Jonathan said firmly. He didn’t sound entirely like he was up for the argument. “I’ve heard the stories. And I’ve seen worse at school, even in passing. That’s abuse.”

“It’s _guidance_ , okay.”

“Steve--”

“It’s not up for discussion, Byers!” Steve snapped. He recoiled at the name ringing in his ears, but the silence was appreciated. They both took deep breaths. “You were saying.”

“I-I was just saying that… we-- _I_ had a really tough time with my dad _starting_ to leave, that whole shit mess. When he left _I_ became the father of the house, even if mom could do everything. Will needed to know there was another guy, just as weird as him, that had _some_ answers to his questions. I became reliable instead of vulnerable. I closed up, more than usual. Except around you.”

“You were always talkative to me.” Steve said, as if agreeing with his own recollection brought them closer together.

“You were the only person I could give and request comfort from. _Physical_ comfort.” Jonathan sighed, grabbing Steve’s arm. “And during all that turmoil, I wasn’t even thinking about what… doing things with you meant. Because it wasn’t romantic or even… sexual or anything. We were just the same person trying to heal the same way. I liked being with you.”

Steve tried not to crash the car. “How is that possible? How could you like _kissing_ me if you aren’t… made like me?”

“Think of it like testing a hypothesis.” Jonathan shrugged, placing his one foot on the dash.

Steve blinked. “I got a C minus in chemistry. I hate science.”

“You aren’t stupid though, Steve.” Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “It’s like, we both tested the hypothesis that we were gay. You were right, and I was wrong. But _I_ still tested it. I was still trying to figure things out. But then... I figured out that I liked the comfort, but you had more intimate feelings attached than I did. And that just wasn’t fair to you.”

Steve eased the car to a stop at a traffic light, pushing up his turn signal. He hoped the deliberation of his movements would say more than his words beforehand. “What changed?”

“Nothing!” Jonathan laughed, smiling at the absurdity. “I’m just not gay, Steve. That’s it. I’ll still hold your hand or share my room with you. I just, I know that means something different to you. And I couldn’t break your heart like that.”

“Couldn’t?” Steve echoed. “As in you _haven’t_ already?”

Jonathan placed his hands on his knee and pulled it to his chest, his foot now resting on his seat. He looked out the windshield, suddenly interested in whether or not Steve knew the directions to his house. Steve was staring at Jonathan because he knew it instinctively.

“I’m sorry if-- _that_ I hurt you.” Jonathan said slowly. “But you also didn’t-- I mean, you just… You vanished, Steve.”

“I felt so ashamed. I really thought we were going to be happy-- just the two of us. We’d go to prom or something stupid like that. Make a lot of enemies. I’d get drunk and tell you you were hot far too loud. Shit like that.” Steve set his jaw and gently pressed on the brakes. He turned down the Byers’ driveway.

“You mean you thought I’d be your boyfriend. And _that’s_ why you shut me out?” Jonathan could be sharp with his words too.

“If we weren’t dating and you aren’t gay, then what did that make me?” Steve asked, staring into the shadows in front of him. “A pervert, a predator, a monster-- you pick the word, Byers! I’ve got enough!”

“Pervert.”

“I-- What? You’re actually going to pick a word are you shitting me--”

“ _No_! Pervert. You… You said that, out in the parking lot.” Jonathan recollected, looking at Steve. There wasn’t one moment spent with Steve that went forgotten.

“I shouldn’t have said _any_ of that shit… Everything I said--”

“Was directed at yourself.” Jonathan sighed, looking at Steve with a pursed expression. He really did know. There wasn’t one lie between them.

“... I’m so sorry, Jonathan.”

“Hey! Not calling me ‘Byers’ anymore.” Jonathan tapped Steve on the arm, the car already at a complete stop. “I like it already.” He smiled, but his joy was still hurt.

“Is it over now?” Steve asked, taking his keys out of the ignition.

“You’re here aren’t you?” Jonathan opened his car door and began to get out. “Come on, like old times. It’s a sleepover.”

“W-Wait, I don’t know if I should really--”

“Get out of the car and help me clean up my mother’s house. And then sleep on my floor. Come on.” Steve couldn’t argue with that. Not at all.

After making sure his lights were off, Steve followed Jonathan across the lawn to the house. The front door had been left wide open and the wind has scattered more debris around.

“Better get started.” Steve said, shouldering his jacket off. He hung it over his bat, still laying against the couch. Jonathan nodded and took his own coat off, letting it lay beside Steve’s. It was a motion of solidarity and silence.

They didn’t speak for a while, both boys trying to pick up more than one set of pieces from their childhood.

* * *

“Hey, I didn’t say but… I’m really glad you found Will.” Steve said finally, grabbing his third piece of fallen drywall. “I was worried sick about him. Didn’t know what to do… Or say.”

“You should visit him. He really misses you too.” Jonathan smiled and exhaled slowly. “You’re family to him. To me, too.”

“I, uh, I don’t know if I’m ready to call you family yet.” Steve admitted, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Okay.” Jonathan nodded. “Not at the friends stage yet?”

“Not at the _just_ friends stage yet.” Steve muttered.

“Okay. That’s fair. That’s very fair.”

They went back to silence, Steve trying to collect the torn wallpaper and stack it nicely to be placed in the trash. Jonathan was sweeping the kitchen, Steve enjoying just the sound of his company. They were sixteen again, cleaning up after a day of babysitting Will and helping him draw and paint and craft. It was like standing in an old echo of home, listening it to return the safest sounds in a soft, loving whisper.

Slowly though, Jonathan stopped sweeping. His footsteps met Steve back in the living room, standing in the archway.

“I bet it hurt that you didn’t know our last kiss was going to be our last kiss.” Jonathan said suddenly. Steve stood upright, his mouth going dry. Jonathan had a neutral expression, looking at Steve with careful, deliberate eyes. “I hear smoking’s like that.”

“Just as addictive too.” Steve tried to laugh, tried to act like it wasn’t quitting Jonathan cold turkey that sent him into such a destructive streak. Being so desperate, so broken down, meant he opened up to the wrong people-- his father, namely. The things Steve owned up to in hopes of getting one last fix...

“Would you… want to do it one last time?”

Nancy had taught Steve to go between _should_ and _should not_ , and he learned to practice it right then.

“No. No, not like this. Jonathan, you’re not-- No. That’s. We can’t.”

“Steve, the last time I touched you I was beating the shit out of you. Let our last time, well, _together_ be good.” Jonathan pleaded with his own suggestion. He stepped in closer to Steve, his hands open by his sides but not yet reaching.

Steve stood there, unable to move. He wanted to hold Jonathan one more time, to feel like he did tucked safely under his covers or in the warm stuffiness of the Byers’ kitchen. Steve wanted to be able to love one more time, but knew that it wasn’t right. It was going to be the same mistake.

“Jonathan, I know you don’t want to.” Steve closed his eyes and exhaled. For once, he was telling Jonathan no.

“I do.” He laughed softly. “I _just_ found my brother who’s been missing all week-- I got to return him to his friends. And now, I really want _my_ best friend. I want to end this stupid… wall we’ve put up around each other.”

“Jonathan,”

“If you’re okay, I just want all the bad to go away with _one_ good.”

Steve’s eyes were opened by the shocking touch of familiar, gentle fingers around his hands. Jonathan moved his hands up and guided them to rest on his back. Steve found his place, right where he’d been standing-- _lying--_ when he knew for sure he was in love. And he still was this time, but the ache was different. It was the feeling of reaching out into a darkness, only shadows grazing over his hands. Never another touch. Only ghosts.

Jonathan placed his hands on Steve’s face, all the pain melting away with the return of deliberate, kind touching. Months had felt like years, but Steve had finally come home. The familiar, sweet taste of Jonathan’s lips was so close to no longer being a rejected and repressed memory. Everything would be tangible again, it’d be real-- if only in his mind.

But then it’d be with Steve forever. Every conversation with his parents would have it floating in the back of his mind. Every moment with Nancy. Every dream.

Steve ducked away as he felt Jonathan’s bottom lip graze over his own. He tucked his face into the palms of Jonathan’s hands and exhaled.

“Is this all you want?” He was whispering like he always did in the dark with Steve; keeping a secret even from the shadows.

“This is all I can take.”

“Steve,” Jonathan laughed again, his hands pulling Steve’s chin up. “This is just called hugging. We can do this all the time.”

“N-No. That’s not… We’re not supposed to.”

“It’s a hug, Steve.” Jonathan whispered, although slightly more firm. “I’m not going to hurt you… Our dads are wrong.”

Hearing the words cut an invisible string around Steve’s limbs. He nearly collapsed into Jonathan’s arms, gripping his back and feeling his warmth all over his hands and feeling his muscles move just under his fingertips. Jonathan moved to wrap his arms around Steve’s body as well, keeping him sturdy and supported. Jonathan hushed Steve, gripping the back of his shirt in his fists, before Steve even knew he was crying.

Steve was in love, and he was loving the boy he was holding, but that didn’t make him evil. It wasn’t his touch to another man that made his heart break, it was the belief Jonathan would be the _only_ one. The belief that love was not plentiful and Steve was not deserving. His touch could be gentle with other men. He could reach out to someone and not have it be with a clenched fist or wrapped around a weapon.

Steve could touch and be touched-- and even be a little in love-- and still be good. And he wanted to start with Jonathan; right where he left off.

**Author's Note:**

> [Rebloggable Post (with a moodboard oooo!!)](https://argylemikewheeler.tumblr.com/post/185993666445/be-good-17k-canon-compliant)


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